The Art of Young Love
by Jaladia
Summary: With brotherly neglect, and rejection at school, Sherlock could not be lonelier. But one trip to the park, a notepad and pencil, he may have found his new muse. Even if that new muse wears ridiculously cute sweaters.
1. Chapter 1: Meet

The first time he had seen him was at the park right around the corner from his house.

Sherlock had been scribbling on his notepad, pictures usually of Redbeard and his adventures on the high seas together. Sometimes he would sneak in a drawing of Mycroft with a moustache and a speech bubble saying _very_ inappropriate words, however he tried to keep that to himself.

That day, he didn't feel like drawing any of his pirate days with Redbeard or rude pictures of his brother. He didn't feel like drawing anything, which rarely happened.

He looked up from his notepad, and did a quick deduction of the passers by. A woman, with dark hair in a bun and a small pooch under her arm was taking a stroll, stopping by every once in a while to admire her surroundings. With a glance of her high heels, Sherlock could tell she had it cleaned regularly, with its shine and the way it squeaked as she walked. Rich probably, or just a lot of shoe varnish. Her dress was green, made of out polyester fabric, with a brooch at her neck. Or was it made out of velvet?

He didn't have a chance to find out, because the woman's vision turned to him. Sherlock hid his face behind his notepad, his cheeks flushed ruby. When he looked up again, the woman was still standing there, her expression of revolt. Nevertheless, she continued walking, but now with a slightly louder _clank_ with her heels and her nose higher in the air.

This had happened numerous times, when Sherlock was caught deducting people. He only wished he was as quick as Mycroft when he did _his_ deductions. Sherlock didn't see his brother very often anymore, since he was busy with his study and had been neglecting Sherlock's every request to play together.

Sherlock didn't see it as a particularly bad thing, as he got the chance to start practicing his art skills once more. But he couldn't deny that every once in a while, he had a rush of yearn and desire to show off how he had memorized every Magna Carta law and all the names of Jupiter's moons. He wouldn't admit it, but he _missed_ him. And oh how much he hated human emotions.

A scream. Right before Sherlock could wake up from his thoughts, he heard a scream. His head jerked towards the source of sound. A boy and a girl, around Sherlock's age. They were near the play area, and the boy had kicked sand into the girl's face. By the look on the boy's face, it was an accident.

The girl had blond, short, curly hair and wore a purple dress, just above her shins. She was rubbing her eyes, face red and wet with tears. She was an only child, Sherlock could tell, as her dress and earrings looked expensive.

The boy had light blond hair and eyes so blue, Sherlock could see it from a distance away. He had to chuckle at the boy's clothing wear. He wore a _ridiculous_ sweater, crème and knitted, with shorts above scabbed, pale knees. He also had a very cute nose, pink and short. Sherlock realized he has tracing his jawline with his fingers on his knee.

Sherlock watched as a redhead girl emerged and knelt down to the blonde girl, her hands on her shoulders, wiping sand off of her face. She turned around and threw angry glances at the boy several times. The boy just held his hands behind his back and stared at his feet, guilty.

The boy's head titled slightly upwards, and before he could look at Sherlock, Sherlock had buried his face in his notepad and waited until he was sure he wasn't looking anymore.

Sherlock came home late that afternoon, or at least later than usual. Glancing at his watch, he rushed down the street until he came a cottage. It was small, barely a suitable home for a family. The garden, however, was an entrance to wonders, several trees with a vine covered floor and sounds of nature. Birds singing, grasshoppers chirping, _.

He stood at the door, his finger on the doorbell, frantically pressing. He still had his notepad under his arm and his pencil between his fingers. Mrs. Holmes swung the door open with one arm, while her other arm was in the air, ready to unleash her anger.

After she had finished, she sighed and gestured inside. Once Sherlock was inside, he could tell that dinner was already served. The smell of Mrs. Holmes' cooking and the sound of cutlery _clinking_ and _clattering_ was coming from the kitchen.

"Once you've cleaned yourself off, you may come and have dinner, young man." Mrs. Holmes said, a trace of annoying in her voice. Sherlock nodded obediently and headed towards his room. It was small and crowed, with walls covered with drawings, some better than others. He put down his notepad and pencil on his bed before heading towards the closet.

Sherlock dressed down and put on clean, new clothes. Grey pants up to his ankles and a blue sweater. They had always been his favourite colors.

"How was your day today, Sher?" Mr. Holmes asked before taking a sip of his soup. Mycroft was also at the dinner table, despite never coming out of his room for eating purposes (or any purposes, really). However, Mrs. Holmes had pestered him into 'family bonding time', in which Mycroft made a rude remark, which lead him to getting a smack on the back of his head.

"It was good, thank you." Sherlock responded, stirring his spoon in his soup, feeling not particularly hungry. His parents nodded, their mouths full of homemade chicken soup. Mycroft starred at his bowl, anxiously waiting to get back to his study.

"And we quite know how Mike's afternoon went, didn't we? Study, study, study!" Mrs. Holmes added, a slight smile across her face.

Mycroft looked up from his bowl, anger in his eyes. "My… name… is… Mycroft. _Mother_," he said in a hoarse whisper and slammed his spoon on the table, sending everybody back into their chairs. He didn't wait for his family's reaction, because he stood up and exited the kitchen. Several seconds later, a door being slammed was heard.

Mrs. Holmes' face turned red with rage, but Mr. Holmes held her hand, which was placed on the table, next to her bowl. "Leave him, dear. He's under lots of stress," he said. That seemed to somewhat worked, because Mrs. Holmes' face calmed and lost it's red hue, however she continued to act like she was going to snap at any moment.

Sherlock didn't react through this scene. He sat there, straight back and spoon in hand, waiting to be dismissed. When he was, he hurried back to his room, closed the door, and placed his ear against the wall on the left of his door. Next to his, was Mycroft's room. He remembered playing games with his brother between these walls. They would send each other morse codes and laugh at what the other one said.

He wished to play those games once more, to spend weekends with each other's company. He wanted- _no_! No, he did _not_ miss him. What was he thinking? That _sleezeball_ who continued to neglect him, even avoid making eye contact with him during dinner, did not deserve the his love. Sherlock held back tears, and instead decided to occupy his mind with drawing.

He sat on his bed, notepad on his lap, twirling his pencil with his fingers. He had nothing to draw, he realized after several more moments of silence. He looked at his (very few) options. Drawing Redbeard would just bring back good memories and bad feelings. Drawing Mycroft would just make him cry again.

Sherlock closed the notepad and threw it off his bed before going to sleep.

The next day would be dress up day, where you were allowed to wear something other than your school uniform. Sherlock rummaged through his closet, trying to find an outfit. His mother had asked him if she could help with picking one, but dragging her into it would take a lot more time than it needed. Plus, she was still a bit stirred up with yesterday's dinner.

The Holmes' parents were at church, as they were every Sunday. Mycroft skipped because of obvious reasons, and so did Sherlock because he was never really the religious type. It did feel strange to be left alone in the house with Mycroft. It also sounded strange saying that in Sherlock's mind, because he would have killed to spend time with Mycroft several weeks ago.

After some more rummaging, Sherlock came to a conclusion. Every outfit he had would make him look silly. He did not want to look silly, especially because he wasn't the most likable at school in the first place. He opened the door so it was slightly ajar, and crept out, trying not to alert his sibling in the next room. He crossed the hallway to his parent's room and shut the door behind him very quietly.

Sherlock used to be allowed into his parents' room, however only to discuss his nightmares about how nightmares had no logic thus making it nothing to be afraid of. But now his parents thought he was old enough to stop having nightmares in the middle of the night, but Sherlock knew very well that nightmares never do stop.

He swung open his parents' closet doors, which were wooden, dark and polished. He scanned the clothing items before finding what he needed, shutting the doors closed, and entering his bedroom again. Sherlock laid out the items on his bed.

His father's dark grey coat (coat collars included), his mother's blue scarf, and of course, that ridiculous ear hat with two fronts given to them by who knows who.

Sherlock's mouth formed into a smile as he thought about how many compliments he was going to receive on his outfit and how people would think he was cool. _People would think he was cool_. The thought sent shivers down his back. Happy shivers of course.

Today was dress up day. Sherlock made sure his parents nor Mycroft saw him leave his room. He was sure he was going to get into trouble if they found out he borrowed clothes from his parents' closet. He walked to school, his head held high and his arms swaying by his side. He had never felt so confident. They lived in a small town, so he passed by without meeting any bystanders on the way.

Sherlock arrived to his first class fashionably late. It was literature, a subject he hardly cared for. When he walked through the doors, everybody's attention turned towards him, as you would assume with anybody coming to class late.

But it was different. It was a different kind of stare that the children gave him. Sherlock choose to see their expressions as surprised and in awe rather than mocking. Nobody talked to him, as per usual, but he could feel stares stabbing him in the back.

The bell rang, and the kids walked out of the classroom. They were not running in excitement as they always had. The moment they left their seats, they paired up with a friend and starting whispering. Sherlock pretended not to hear the snarky remarks.

As he walked to recess in the hallways, a large kid, with boxy shoulders and chopped hair said, 'Sorry sir, today is dress up day, not dress-up-as-your-grandpa day.' Then he muttered 'loser' under his breath before letting out a loud cackle.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and ran to the nearest boy's bathroom, holding back raging tears which threatened to spill at any moment. He looked himself in one of the stalls, and sat down on the lid of the toilet, his head in his hands. He was quiet for a moment, to check if he could hear breathing, and let out a burst of a cry. Once he started, he couldn't stop.

What was wrong with his outfit? Was his coat too big? Did people dislike ear hats? Or is it just him? How he was such a know-it-all? The way he stares at you like he's opening a gate into your life, your insecurities and secrets? It was all his fault that nobody liked him. That nobody thought he was cool. Tha-

The door was swung open. Sherlock heard footsteps and held his breath. He had read somewhere that the best way to hold one's breath is to sit upright and relaxing every muscle in the body.

The footsteps continued, until they were right in front of Sherlock's stall.

"Hello?" A voice said. The voice was soft, yet strong and serious. Sherlock hesitated to answer, but decided to open the stall door instead. When he did, his heart skipped a beat.

_The boy._ The sweater-wearing, blue-eyed, cute-nosed boy. He wore a cardigan, green this time, with tan shorts (again) up to his knees. He was adorable. He looked up and down at Sherlock, a smile forming. Sherlock was ready for the insult to come, but it never did.

"Are you crying?" The boy asked, with genuine curiosity. Sherlock didn't want to answer, not even nod a 'yes'. After seconds, the boy walked over to the paper dispenser, and handed some tissue to Sherlock. Sherlock wiped his face, confused yet delighted.

"I like your outfit," the boy said. Sherlock first thought this was a sarcastic comment, but when he looked at the boy's face, there was no trace of cruelty. Sherlock did nothing but stare. "I'm John."


	2. Chapter 2: Sketch

Sherlock couldn't show his notepad to _anyone_. He would bump into John almost everyday in the corridors, wave and smile, then go on their own ways. But every time Sherlock saw his face, he would study it. His strong jawline, short eyelashes, shapeless mouth, it all felt like missing pieces of a puzzle.

This was both good practice for his drawing skills, as well as his deduction skills, as looking at John too long would seem rather strange.

His mind palace (which was still being built upon information) had John's every detail of his face sketched onto Sherlock's brain. The more portraits Sherlock drew, the more familiar and friendlier John seemed. Seeing him now, would be like exiting a room only to find the exact same room once more.

Sherlock wasn't sure _why_ he had started drawing him. He went home that dress-up day, with a strong urge to grab his pencil and start scribbling onto his notepad. The first thing that came to mind, was…him. It wasn't like Sherlock wasn't thinking about him. John was the only thing that kept him upright that day, the only thing that made Sherlock able to walk with his chin high. Nobody was ever nice to Sherlock.

He also had no intentions of telling anybody, especially not John. People already thought he was insane. And maybe John would find him creepy. A lunatic even.

"Sher, dear?" His mother called out. Sherlock hated being interrupted, especially when he was almost done with yet another portrait. However, he stood up, opened his bedroom door, and sat at his dining table, where his mother had called out from.

His mother' was standing next to her chair, one hand holding it, the other on her hip. Mrs. Holmes' body was titled slightly to the right, her face worried. She was obviously not comfortable about whatever they were going to discuss. You didn't have to be as clever as Sherlock to figure that out. She sat down, with her hands clenched on the table.

"We need to talk, Sher."

Shivers ran down his back at those words. Not happy shivers, of course. Her tone was so fragile, like it might break at any second, and those words never meant anything good.

"Your brother," Mrs. Holmes started, "is under so much stress, with finals coming up and everything. All we ask is for you to be…sympathetic. You might be very angry at Mike right now, but. your father and I don't want anymore tantrums and fighting right now. Please do understand, love."

Sherlock said nothing. This is about Mycroft. It's _always_ about Mycroft. Did his parents wonder about him? How he was doing at school? How he might feel living under a roof with an isolated, _coldhearted_ brother? HOW HE SHOULDN'T DESERVE TANTRUMS INSTEAD OF HIM?

"DON'T BOTHER ME!" Sherlock yelled, slamming his fist onto the table. His mother let out a scream of shock. Sherlock stood up from the table, knocking the chair onto the floor with a long 'bang', before storming back into his room and crying.

Sherlock hated recess. During class, people were forced to sit next to him. But recess meant he was alone. He had to sit alone and eat alone. He began to like being alone. Peace and serenity, and plenty of time to draw.

He always sat on the far end table, next to the garbage bins, because nobody ever sat anywhere near those. He sat on the chairs facing the wall, so nobody would spy and look at his drawings.

Noise. Sherlock looked up. There was a table, crowded with people. They were all laughing about a story somebody was telling. Then his stare caught a certain someone. John. He had his arms folding, smiling and giggling every once in a while. His arm was interlocked with the blonde girl. The one from the park. Sherlock still didn't know her name, but she seemed like a typical girl, nothing special.

His gaze turned back to John, and he caught himself smiling at his ears. He had to try and draw his head from the back.

John's face turned, and he locked eyes with Sherlock. Sherlock looked down, his cheeks flushing red, and hid behind his notepad. Déjà vu, as he would call it.

Footsteps. No, no, no. He was coming over. Sherlock looked up, with the most casual expression he was capable of.

His smile. John's smile. John's warm eyes filled with friendliness. Why was he ever so worried in the first place?

The blonde girl was also there, but to Sherlock's surprise, she was also smiling. Her eyes were blue and wide, her lips a shade of dark pink. She extended her hand. "I'm Mary. Don't think we've met before."

Sherlock stared at her hand, confused. Mary let out a friendly chuckle, and took Sherlock's hand herself. Her hand was warm. Everything about her seemed warm, like a cozy fire.

"Do you want to join us?" John said. Sherlock's heart leaped at his voice. He only heard it once before, even though they had encountered one another many times afterwards. His voice was crisp and sweet. Sherlock shook his head. "Then do you mind us sitting here? The story isn't all that great, people just laugh because they don't want to seem rude." Mary said, taking an empty seat at the table.

John took the next seat, and Sherlock felt the presence of his legs inches away from his.

"So, what do you usually do? I mean your hobbies?" Mary asked, smiling widely. Sherlock shrugged. If he said drawing, they would want to look at them. Maybe he had a picture of him and Redbeard somewhere.

"I guess I like reading," Sherlock said. He was _horrible_ at small talk. He wasn't sure if you could study at making conversations.

"What about drawing? I've seen some of your artwork in art class. It's amazing," Mary said. Sherlock forced an appreciative smile. He was never good at smiling.

He flipped to the first few pages of his notepad. "Here's a good one." It had a picture of Sherlock and Redbeard at the bow of the ship, Sherlock's arm with a sword extended. High waves crashed into the boat, but not high enough to hide the wooden etch into the side of the ship reading 'Billy'.

"Who's this?" Mary asked, pointing to Redbeard.

"That's my dog. Redbeard. We've always wanted to be pirates," Sherlock answered, "I know, it's stupid-"

"That's genius." John said, admiring the drawing. Sherlock couldn't contain his surprise.

"Why are you so shocked? Don't people give you compliments on your art?" John said, genuinely curious. Sherlock shook his head. He had shown his artwork to his parents in the past, but it wasn't anything compared to Mycroft's accomplishments.

Silence. "You know there's an art contest going on? You should join." John said. Sherlock didn't know he was _that _good.

"I'm not really sure what it's about," Sherlock replied. He was running out excuses.

"Something like 'draw something you love'. They always go with that theme because they can't come up with anything else." John replied. Mary nodded, confirming the theme.

"You could draw Redbeard!" Mary inquired.

"Or Billy." John joined in.

"Huh?" Sherlock asked, "oh, Billy's not anybody I know. It's just a name that I always use."

The bell rang, and Sherlock wished it didn't. As bad as he was with conversation, he enjoyed talking to John and Mary. A little bit more with John.

"I'll see you later Sherlock!" Mary said, grabbing her backpack from the ground. She waved to him, smiling, like always.

"Seriously though," John said, placing his hand on top of Sherlock's, "you should join the contest. I'd be surprised if you didn't win." And as quickly as it happened, it ended, and John ran to catch up with Mary.

Sherlock's mouth was slightly open in awe, and he could feel the absence of John's hand on his.


	3. Chapter 3: Deduct

Mrs. Holmes hadn't spoken to neither of her children for several days. Sherlock's tantrum had been a shock to the whole family, as he was always the obedient child. She stills cooks meals, but Mr. Holmes was the one who serves them, while Mrs. Holmes ate alone in the living room. After everybody finishes their meal, they all go back to their rooms and mind their own busissness.

However, Sherlock had never been less alone at school. John and Mary had been sitting with him every recess, talking to one another, growing more and more comfortable with each other's company as the days went on.

It was almost like the two place's roles had switched. School was where Sherlock had been the most isolated, while home was where the comfort and friends were. Of course, Mycroft was Sherlock's only friend. Until now.

John had never mentioned about the awkward hand holding incident a few weeks ago. At least it wasn't awkward for Sherlock. But perhaps to John. Maybe he might think he was a freak if he enjoyed their hands touching. But Sherlock…he…he wasn't…was he?

He had been attracted to girls in the past, but he had always thought he was just thinking that to convince himself that he wasn't…

"Are you alright John?" Mary asked, looking up at her boyfriend. John had just arrived to school, despite it being the first recess. His hair was ruffled, his shirt un-tucked, his tie wrinkled, his eyes baggy. There was an uncertain darkness to him, not like his usual self. As he turned, Sherlock noticed a stitched cut above his eyebrow. John merely nodded his head and took a seat.

"John Watson, I'm not an idiot," Mary replied through her teeth. Sherlock was taken back by this. He had expected her to keep asking the same question over and over again, shaking his arm and crying. But Mary was smarter than that.

"Your sister is a fencer," Sherlock said. Both John and Mary's heads turned towards him.

"What?" John began, his mouth gapped.

"Well, it's pretty obvious," Sherlock said, "You've had a rough morning, as everybody might have guessed. However, you walk with anxiety and tiredness at your feet, meaning you hadn't had any sleep, so something must have happened the night before."

"The stitched cut on your head. It's very thin, but it cut pretty deeply. My instant thought is a glass bottle. Full of alcohol, I suppose. However, it wasn't smashed on your head, otherwise the cut would have been presented differently and would have been on the side of your head. The placement of your cut is very precise. No drunk could have been that detailed."

"Somebody must have hit you while sober. My first thought is arguing with somebody about a sensitive topic, might have been about a drinking problem, might have not, and the conversation got out of hand. How they cut your forehead, the method is very peculiar.

"The cut looks like somebody must have smashed the bottle, then pressed it against your head. It was more of a torture technique. It must have been fast. Doing something like that with a fast takes practice. My first thought is fencing. The activity requires quick thinking and swift moves. The sword has to go straight through the opponent, much like what your sister had."

Sherlock opened his eyes, as he realized he had them closed throughout his explained deduction. His words sunk in. He had just told a tragic event like he was answering a question in class. His face burned red. He expected John and Mary to never talk to him again. He messed up and he's going to be alone. There would be nothing to look forward to now.

"I'm-I'm sorry. That wa-that was…rude," Sherlock said to the floor. He played with his fingers behind his back. What an idiot he was…

"How did you know it was my sister?" John asked, surprisingly intrudingly.

Sherlock looked up from the floor, confused. "I-well, I didn't. That…was a guess. I'm still not very good at this sort of thing. Still learning. I saw your sister at the park, assumed she was your sister. So, that was the first face I thought of."

John nodded his head understandably. Sherlock was shocked that John wasn't angry or upset. This boy wasn't like anyone Sherlock had ever met before.

"John," Mary said, "does Harriet do this often?" John shook his head.

"We got in a heated argument, as already figured out. I didn't like her…well…drinking. She had started getting obsessed with it, and smarter on how to get keep in secret."

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock said. He had trouble getting those words out of his mouth.

John laughed. "You machine."

Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh or to hug him. Or both.

Sherlock ran into Mycroft today. Middleschoolers and seniors have different schedules, and the only time they could only pass each other was when the seniors have recess and the middleschoolers have class, because they both pass through the hallways.

Mycroft used to send hand signals to Sherlock, complaining about teachers who got their facts wrong and fellow students who feel asleep during class. Sherlock would send hand signals back, usually about the same things. They would chuckle at one another's signals, then go their own ways, ignoring the confused bystanders.

As he expected, Mycroft passed by Sherlock without a word. He had his face buried into a textbook, using his knowledge of foot coordination with minimum focus.

Though Mycroft didn't _technically_ see Sherlock, Sherlock figured he would have probably ignored him anyways. He knew he wasn't supposed to care, but that realization stabbed him in his chest.

After a very long discussion, Mr. Holmes had convinced his wife to try and break the tension between their sons. She had stopped eating in the living room, and even started making eye contact when she served them dinner and said a greeting every time they came home. It wasn't much, but it was improvement.

However, Sherlock and Mycroft failed to reason and return the favour to their mother.

"Eat up, boys," Mrs. Holmes said as she placed a plate of scrambled eggs and baked beans in front of Sherlock. Mr. Holmes and Mycroft had already started digging in.

"This is splendid, darling," Mr. Holmes said, a smile stained with sauce on his face. Mrs. Holmes put her hand on his shoulder affectionately. Mycroft nodded in agreement.

Mycroft was giving in on neglecting his mother's tries on making up with them, however Sherlock wasn't going to let that happen to him.

It was a weekend, which meant a whole day in the house, a day without seeing John or Mary. Sherlock grew to hate weekends. However, plenty of time to draw.

After finishing his meal, Sherlock scooted his chair back, stood up, and headed towards his bedroom. After shutting the door, he retrieved his notepad from underneath his desk (he had spent one afternoon installing a compartment on top of his desk, which was normally hidden by his desk lamp, which opens by sticking a pen, pushing the compartment open), and grabbed a pencil, ready to draw.

He first sketched the outline of his face, then started defining the jaw. Then the hair, doing every detail of his strands, then his nose. The cute nose. The eyes, the lashes, the mout-

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Holmes swung the door open. Sherlock was so surprised, he threw his pencil into the air and the notepad on his bed. He immediately regretted it, because Mrs. Holmes' attention had turned to the notepad. The first thing she saw was a portrait of a stranger boy. The room was silenced.

"Sherlock. Let me see that," Mrs. Holmes' face had turned so stern and serious, she might have looked like a stone statue. Sherlock's heart stopped beating, so he turned to his mind, the much more useful organ. His first thought was to destroy the picture.

He grabbed the page and started ripping it, but Mrs. Holmes had already took grab of it. The force from both sides had the page rip in two. The noise was unbearable. They stood there for a split second, before Mrs. Holmes snatched the other piece from Sherlock's grasp. She looked at both of the papers side by side, and it was bluntly obvious what the picture was.

"Who is this?" Mrs. Holmes said, a nervous waver in her voice. Sherlock didn't say anything at first. He could feel sweat running down his forehead and on his palms.

"Nobody," Sherlock lied, but he was so panicked, he did a bad job at it. Mycroft could lie better than he could. Mycroft could do anything better than he could.

"Don't lie to my face. I've had quite enough of you. Now, who is this?" The anxiety of her voice had disappeared, replaced with anger.

"I already said. Nobody," Sherlock said again, a jolt of bravery rushing over him. He wasn't sure what made it happen, perhaps the brain reacts to the same attitude of it's surroundings. He makes a mental note to go into philosophy a bit more.

"I will not ask again. Who are you drawing?"

"NOBOD-" He was interrupted with a slap across his face. His mother had never hit him before, and she had never shown the symptoms of an abusive parent. But she did indeed slap her son.

A long silence hung between the mother and son. It stayed for several, painful moments.

"I'm sorry, Sher," his mother said weakly. Sherlock held back tears. Human, emotional, bursting tears.

Mrs. Holmes had started wanting to talk to Sherlock, but he used every opportunity to avoid her. He knew what she wanted to talk about. It was a topic no kid wanted to talk about to their mother.

His sexuality.

He was NOT gay. He was straight. He didn't have anything against gays. He was actually fascinated by them. One time, when he was bored, he studied why people are born with sexualities and how it happens.

Sherlock figured that drawing portraits of a boy would perhaps question his sexuality. But everybody had a boy (or girl) crush, even if it wasn't their cup of tea.

The more and more Sherlock thought about it, the more he realized. Maybe he was gay. He liked John's structure of face, his voice, how he laughs, how he doesn't think Sherlock is a freak. Everything about him, Sherlock liked. But John wasn't…he had Mary. It was a ridiculous thought.

His life was so busy, he had almost forgot to enter the art contest. He did the following day of school. Now he had to think of what to draw.

What did he want to draw? What did he love? Maybe he should draw his family. It might break the fuse between them. But, let's face it. Everybody was going to draw their family. Redbeard, he could draw Redbeard. But everybody would draw pets.

He wanted to be original. What did people love, but would never tell about? It was obvious. A crush. Sherlock heard about this new girl at school. Janine, he thought her name was.


	4. Chapter 4: Break

The morning had just started in the Watson household. John woke up at 7 am, showered, brushed his teeth before and after breakfast (which was benedict eggs and a glass of orange juice), then proceeded to get dressed.

Harriet, on the other side, was still in bed. She wasn't stupid, despite what her teachers and her parents say. She learned how to act as if she wasn't hung-over everyday, or that her head didn't feel like bursting or that she might vomit any moment. It took practice.

She got out of bed, her feet coming in contact with the warm rug. Harriet rushed to the bathroom. She took a quick shower, then after drying herself off, she applied make up to hide the dark shadows under her eyes. Harriet practiced her facial expressions in front of the mirror, before walking out. As she opened the door, she jumped with surprise. Her young brother stood in front of her, his eyes not meeting hers.

"Sorry," Harriet said in an undertone, then slid past him. She wasn't on good terms with John. Not like she ever is. They decided not to mention the whole 'cut bottle' incident which occurred several weeks ago. Of course she was dying of guilt, but what would she say to him? "Apologies for cutting open your forehead with a broken bottle and ruining your childhood,"?

She didn't have to fake much in front of her parents. She drank lightly yesterday anyways.

* * *

Janine was interesting. Her hair was dark and skin light. She had a voice of an Irish, but a face of a Middle Eastern, or somewhere around. She was pretty nonetheless.

Sherlock started talking to her during science class. They were even lab partners. She was surprisingly easy to talk to. Sherlock had accustomed a liking to her.

Sherlock had also started sitting next to Janine during recess. Turns out, Mary and Janine were friends. Mary went over to their table, her face filled with content. She left them alone and walked back to her table, where John sat, his face aghast. Mary insisted they left the two alone.

John and Mary sat at the table, silence between them like an iron wall. Mary was admiring the newfound couple sitting tables away. "Isn't this splendid?" She asked, her chin resting on her palm, smiling.

"What? The school lunch?" John asked, snapping back to reality.

Mary slapped his arm, smiling slightly. "Sherlock and Janine, you dumbo. I think they're a good couple. But knowing Janine, she's gonna wanna take things quickly."

"It's just weird having Sherlock not sitting _here_," John said as he stirred his mashed potatoes with his fork. After a split second of saying that, John instantly regretted it. "I mean, why can't they _both_ sit here? Everybody would be happy."

"Yes I'm sure everybody _would_ be happy. Maybe except you," teased Mary, a sly grin growing on her face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," replied John, his voice now hushed and his eyes distracted.

"Sure you do," Mary laughed. John had never been so embarrassed. At least nobody else heard it.

* * *

Sherlock had spent the past few days working on the Janine masterpiece. It was weird. It didn't feel like drawing John. When he drew John, he felt the warm, living, breathing human behind the drawing. But when he drew Janine, it was much like drawing something animated. Unreal. Like painting a bowl of fruit.

Bowls of fruit had no significance to Sherlock. They didn't have a familiar laugh, or a particular tone of voice, or a way of walking. It was dead. A corpse that was never alive._ Boring_.

Yes. He did just call Janine a corpse that was never alive. He didn't feel bad about it. He sort of lost any affection that was there for her in the first place after he caught her talking to another boy next to the lockers. He was even a little bit hurt.

When his mother asked him about the painting, Sherlock told her it was his girlfriend. A real person this time, he promised. He even showed her the photo he had taken of her for referrence. It wasn't a surprise that Mrs. Holmes was astounded. She left the room, in a way relieved. Was she relieved her son wasn't gay? Yes. Was she ashamed about feeling relieved? Absolutely.

* * *

Mr. Holmes had been wanting (for a very long time) to spend some quality time with his children. Some 'man' time. His wife was definitely on board with the idea. Some free time in the house sounded pretty good.

Mr. Holmes wanted to go fishing. He knew Sherlock was a fan of the water, and Mycroft had never gone fishing, therefore it was something Mycroft had no knowledge of. And Mycroft wanted to know _everything_. Mr. Holmes was already excited.

"That sounds stupid," remarked Mycroft, "we're going to be baking out in the sun for hours, catching fish with bait, only to let it go afterwards? What the hell is the point?"

"Mike! Don't make me clean that foul mouth with soap!" Mrs. Holmes yelled from the living room. Mycroft sighed.

"We're not allowed to bring the fish with us. It's violating the lake rules," Mr. Holmes replied, slightly disappointed at Mycroft's reaction.

"Lake rules? You have got to be kidding me. If we are to do any of this 'bonding' time, at least perform something productive," Mycroft said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"The _point_ of this bonding time is to grow closer as a family. We're very distant from one another, and it's not healthy for our household and our relationships," Mr. Holmes replied, staring at the floor.

"You realize, _father_, that there is a reason we are distant from one another-" began Mycroft, but was interrupted by his father. He had started weeping into his hands. Sherlock was glad he had stayed out of the conversation.

Mrs. Holmes rushed over to comfort her husband, shooting dirty glances at Mycroft. "Father always gets his way," Mycroft said in an annoyed tone, "fine, we shall attend."

The two Holmes children began to dread the upcoming Saturday, as it was the day of the fishing trip. Mr. Holmes had already packed for it when his sons awoke. Mrs. Holmes made breakfast for the three, then waved goodbye as they set out on their trip.

They loaded into the family car, Mycroft ridding shotgun and Sherlock in the backseat, which he was perfectly happy being.

The family arrived to the lake at 10 am. The morning was still fresh. The odor of nature and salt water filled their nostrils. Mr. Holmes rented a boat while the children waited in the car. It didn't take long, as the place was empty. They set the boat on the surface of the water, and climbed in.

Mr. Holmes paddled the boat, while explaining how to put the bait on the hook. They used pieces of corn instead of worms, as it made Mrs. Holmes sick having them in the garage.

"Pull the fishing hook back, and throw it forward. Make sure the bait is not going to fall off. Rile backwards if you sense movement," he said, looking out to the water, then looking back to his sons.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I know how to _fish_, father." Sherlock could feel his father roll his eyes.

"Then go ahead, Mike. Let's see if you catch anything," his father said, his tone showing he was unconvinced of Mycroft's words.

"Fine," Mycroft spat, as he took a piece of corn from the can and stuck it through the hook. He pulled back the fishing hook over his head, then pulled the hook backward. It landed in the water with a '_plop_'.

Several minutes passed. Mr. Holmes' attention turned to his younger son. "Sher, why don't you try? Let's see if you can get something before your brother!" His expression said nothing but affection.

"But you started before me," began Sherlock.

"The fishes don't know that!" Mr. Holmes said, a chuckle arising.

"I think you'll find it's 'fish', not 'fishes', father," said Mycroft. Mr. Holmes didn't reply to his rude remark.

Sherlock repeated what Mycroft had done. Almost instantly after the hook was in the water, the bob moved down and dragged Sherlock down too.

"Dad! I got one!" Sherlock said. He didn't even try to hide the excitement in his voice.

"Rile it backwards, Sher!" Mr. Holmes replied, sharing the same enthusiasm. Sherlock obeyed, and a salmon flew through the air, the hook still in it's mouth. It wriggled around, trying to get free. Sherlock hovered the hook over the water and the salmon fell in.

Mr. Holmes looked elated as he nestled Sherlock's hair. Proudness reflected in his eyes. The two started cheering and hugging. Commotion rocked the boat. Among the noise, Mycroft felt a tug on his hook. He riled backwards, and saw a large salmon, larger than the other one. He grinned, and turned to his father. He was too distracted with Sherlock's achievement to pay attention to Mycroft.

Mycroft felt disappoint flood over him as he unhooked the fish and threw it back into the water.

* * *

John ran into Janine and Sherlock during class passing time. She had her arm wrapped around Sherlock's. The sight created a knot in John's stomach. However, he greeted them as they passed by one another.

"Hey, John," Janine said. Her voice was cheery and high.

"Hi, Janine. Hi, Sherlock," John didn't even try to hide his rude tone.

"We're just going to science together! Think we'll be lab partners!" Janine said, the same voice. Sherlock didn't say much, but he nodded.

"Well, alright. I'm just heading to math. See you two later, then," and with that, John and the two lovebirds parted their ways. When John came to class, he couldn't have been less in the mood to learn.

* * *

Sherlock explained his plan to John and Mary the next day, in first recess. He would dump Janine before the gallery, so the judges would feel bad for him. Instant advantage.

"Sherlock, she like likes you," John said, slightly sick with what he just heard.

"Exactly. Human error," Sherlock replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He was growing more and more like Mycroft.

Sherlock walked the school halls, his chin high, with confidence in his stride. Janine was at her locker. She looked beautiful. Her olive skin shone in the light, her black hair in curls, and her eyelids heavily coated in black eye shadow. It looked good on her.

He walked over to her. She turned around to see Sherlock. She greeted him with her charming smile, but Sherlock didn't return the greeting.

"You alright, Sherie?" Janine asked in her rich accent. Sherlock leaned over to her, his lips near her ears. The feeling tickled a bit.

"We need to talk. Somewhere private," he whispered. Janine felt physical goose bumps climb her back. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

"It's over." Sherlock announced. They were outside in the playground. Nobody hung around the playground anymore because it wasn't 'cool'.

Janine shook her head in disbelief. "I don't understand, Sherie. It was going so good." Her fingers began to interlace with his. He shook them off.

"Don't call me Sherie," he spat with disgust in his voice, "I'm serious. It's over."

It finally came to Janine that he wasn't kidding. "We didn't even kiss! You can't do this," she protested, fury building up inside. Sherlock merely shrugged and walked away, ignoring Janine's angry demands and threats.

* * *

John was more than happy to see Sherlock sitting with them again. He didn't want to admit, but he was relieved that they weren't going out anymore. He denied it, but something told him it wasn't only because Sherlock would be sitting with them again.

"As long as you're happy, Sherlock," Mary said. John nodded and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Anyways, I should be going. I want to show Mrs. Hoffman my portrait of Janine. She's the art teacher anyways, and tomorrow is the day of the gallery. See you guys later," Sherlock said, packing his lunch and getting up from his seat.

Mary and John said their farewells. John stared at the seat where Sherlock sat. He was now all too familiar with his absence, and he didn't like it one bit.


	5. Chapter 5: Drink

Let's just say, Mrs. Hoffman _loved_ the painting. Sherlock wasn't surprised. He didn't forget to mention the 'heartbreak' Janine had caused him shortly before. Mrs. Hoffman, expectedly, showed Sherlock sympathy. She wished him good luck on the gallery that would take place the next day, and Sherlock went off. By the time he walked out of the classroom, the bell rung for class.

Mycroft returned home that day. He jumped off the bus, almost racing Sherlock to the door. He went off to find his mother, whom was watching television in the living room.

"Yes, Mike?" Mrs. Holmes asked, her attention still on the TV screen.

"A _friend_ had invited me to his house. May you grant permission for this?" Mycroft asked, his words sounded rehearsed to Sherlock, but he decided to keep it to himself.

Mrs. Holmes had to look at her son to see if he was lying or being serious. Mycroft doesn't have _any_ friends. He doesn't have time to talk to his little brother, nonetheless make friends. The Holmes children had surprised their mother enough these past few months, so she decided not to dwell on it too much. She merely nodded and gave Mycroft a forced smile.

"The gallery's tomorrow, mother," Sherlock reminded his mother. She rolled her eyes playfully.

"I know Sher! I can't wait to see my baby up there!" Mrs. Holmes replied, squeezing her son's shoulder. Sherlock didn't sound too pleased about the 'baby' part, but he headed to his room, satisfied.

Mycroft couldn't help but overhear her response, and felt his heart tug at her words.

"Mum, Dad, a friend of mine is going to be at the school's gallery tomorrow," John said, leaning on the dining table with his elbows while munching on his asparagus.

"Oh, how lovely! Perhaps your sister could drop you off?" Mrs. Watson suggested as she slapped her son's elbows to get them off the table. The three Watsons' turned their attention to Harriet, who was staring down at her half-empty plate.

"Huh?" Harriet said, feeling stupid.

"Your mother suggested that you drop John off at the gallery tomorrow after school, _darling_," Mr. Watson said, spitting the last word out.

"Oh, right. That sounds good," Harriet said, nodding and avoiding eye contact.

Mrs. Watson sighed sadly, still looking at her daughter, before changing the subject to the rumors going around work about her boss having an affair. Mr. Watson clung onto every one of her words like he was watching a movie coming to it's climax.

John lost track of what she was saying after minutes. He looked up, only to catch Harry glaring back at him. She showed him a kind smile, but John looked away and returned to his meal, his face turning red.

Morning at the Holmes was cheerful. Sherlock woke up earlier than usual, confidence practically oozing out of him. Mrs. Holmes hugged and kissed the boy until his face turned purple and her fragrance was left on his clothes. Mr. Holmes was near too crying. Apparently, the gallery was a huge deal.

Mycroft left the house, without even a 'have a nice day' said to him. Still, he was looking forward to his 'friend's house'. He left the house, with his hand unusually in his pant pocket. Mycroft _never_ does that.

Harry was able to slip in half a bottle of alcohol into her system before leaving the house. It wasn't much, but it would do. She made sure to chew lots of gum before she left. John received hugs and kisses from his parents. Harriet received nothing, but a solemn look.

Harry made sure to tell her parents that she was going to go out after school, then return home to drop John off. The news didn't affect her parents in the slightest. They just nodded, their body language uncomfortable.

John was more than happy to find out that Sherlock would be sitting with them, and that he wasn't going to run off anywhere. Though he hid his excitement, Mary kicked him under the table playfully and mouthed '_your boyfriend's back_'.

The school day had come to an end. The gallery was going to be in a few hours, so Sherlock decided to stay at school in the meanwhile, while John would go home, then return. The two were slightly disappointed that they were going their own ways, but _come on_. Any 'friend' would be disappointed by that, right? Mycroft, also, wasn't going to be coming home, so neither Holmes children were going to be on the bus.

Sherlock spent his afternoon in the library, skimming through the books and trying to find one he hasn't read. John spent his afternoon reading his book about anatomy.

Mycroft walked out of school, alone. He walked until he was out of the neighborhood and in the heart of the city. His family only visits the city every once in a while, if they ever need anything other than groceries.

He rushed into a dark alleyway. It was empty. Mycroft fumbled in his pant pocket, before taking out a cigarette packet and a lighter. He placed a cigarette between his lips, and lit it. He placed the packet and the lighter back into his pocket. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled, watching the smoke dance around in the air.

Noise. A can being kicked to the side. Mycroft turned his head to the source. A redhead girl was leaning against the wall, a cig in her mouth too. She looked at Mycroft and smiled. He recognized her. Harriet, he thought her name was?

Harriet moved towards Mycroft, so they were side by side. They exchanged looks, then smiles. Harriet extinguished her cigarette, and kicked Mycroft's feet. He gave her a grin and handed her another. "You a drinker?" Harriet asked.

"I'd like to be," Mycroft replied, and Harriet kneeled down to retrieve a bottle of booze. It was new. She helped him open the cap, and Mycroft drank the drink in one gulp.

Hours passed. Harriet and Mycroft were now sitting and laughing, both filled with booze. Mycroft had even started hiccupping, which made Harriet laugh. Turns out, Harry remembered Mycroft's name from class. It wasn't a surprise, as Mycroft was that kind of kid that shot his arm into the air each time a question was asked and started teaching the class the subject.

"And then _he_ said-" Mycroft began, his grin ridiculously wide and his eyes half open.

"Wait," Harriet said, giggling and putting her hand over Mycroft's mouth, "I need to check the time. " She looked at her watch, but she couldn't see the numbers clearly.

"Oh," Mycroft said, his arms flailing in the air, "Forget the time! Now is endless, my dear!" Harriet gave in, and they shared another bottle.

John arrived at the gallery, late. Mr. Watson was more than displeased to drive his son. John shared a mutual feeling. He wore a grey sweater decorated with black cat faces.

Luckily, he got there before the judges got to Sherlock's work. They shared eye contact, and John gave him a silly grin. He moved towards to hear what Sherlock was saying to them.

"- beautiful. She was everything. And she was the end of me. We broke up shortly before. Now, this painting is a hurtful reminder of her. I cannot look at at it the same way," Sherlock said, holding back tears. John was pretty convinced. He hoped the judges were too.

The judges nodded, thanked Sherlock, and went on the next painting. Sherlock lost his grin.

John ran over to stand next to Sherlock. He glanced around the gallery. Some drew their pets, their late relatives, their families. One kid drew a picture of a blue bicycle. But certainly, nobody drew their crushes. John turned behind to get a good look at the portrait of Janine.

Sherlock had exaggerated her features. Her eyelashes were longer, her cheekbones were sharper, her lips were fuller. John guessed this was intentional. She was smiling in the painting, her teeth showing. Her eyes were smiling too, and there was physical crinkles underneath her eyes.

"So they believed your speech?" John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Of course they did. I happen to be an excellent liar," Sherlock replied.

"You're excellent at everything," John said. There was an awkward silence. At least it was awkward to John. He could feel his cheeks flush, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"My parents admire my younger brother more," Mycroft said, a lump in his throat. All their bottles were finished. For the past hour, they had started talking about their problems.

Harry patted Mycroft on the back. He had started crying. "That sucks," she said.

"I deserve it," he said, "I'm an annoying, rude twit." Mycroft started bawling.

"Hey, hey, hey," Harriet soothed, "I don't think you're a twit. You're the opposite of twit. It's their loss." Mycroft hugged Harriet, and continued crying. He stained her clothes with tears and snot. She didn't seem to mind.

The judges were discussing. The contestants stood by their paintings, and all friends and family had to stand back. That meant John. After some whispering and disagreements between the judges, they were ready to announce.

One of the judges, a middle-aged woman with a curly bob and a pant suit was going to announce the winner. She had a mic in her hand, and her hot pink nails stood out.

"Ladies and gentlemen. It has been a _pleasure_ to meet all these talented artists. Their artwork were all sublime, however, we have to pick two runner ups, and of course, the _winner_." She said. Her voice was sweet, but forced and fake. Cheers erupted from the friends and family.

John shot Sherlock a thumbs up. Sherlock's expression softened.

"_Now_, the first runner up," she looked down at her piece of paper, "Piper McClain!" Piper was a freckled brunette. She smiled, some of her teeth missing. She walked onto stage, and received her prize from one of the judges, a plump man in grey. The prize was a goody bag, filled with rubber bands and lollipops.

"The _second_ runner up," the judge paused, "Michael Butler!" Michael had a red sports cap with platinum blonde hair sticking out. Michael showed no emotion, but his mother, the same blonde hair and a large figure, was cheering on the top of her lungs and clapping. He walked onto stage, avoiding eye contact, and received his prize. The same thing as Piper's.

"And _finally_, the _winner_," she grinned, showing her pearly white, straight teeth, "Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock didn't look surprised when his name was announced. He walked on stage, his hands behind his back and his posture straight, with a slight smirk. The crowd was disappointed. A kid with a painting of an orange, striped cat starting crying. A girl with red plaits and a painting of an elderly woman crossed her arms angrily.

John was perhaps the loudest one clapping, and the only one who actually _wanted_ to clap. Sherlock received a medal with a painter's brush etched into the metal, as well as a bigger goody bag than the ones Piper and Michael got. He raised an eyebrow mockingly at the crowd.

"Thank you, _everybody_, who had participated! It has been a splendid afternoon!" The judge said, giving one last plastic grin.

Mycroft walked back home, stumbling every now and then. His anger had been expressed. His jar of stored emotions was empty. And he was glad. He was thankful. For Harry.

He arrived home at around eight-pm-ish, but he had no idea. His parents were enjoying a plate of apple pie. Mycroft scowled. He _loves_ apple pie. So does Sherlock. It clicked to him.

"Hello dear, Mikie! You're just in time! Guess what? Your broth-" his mother began, but Mycroft cut her off.

"Yes, I know," he said hoarsely. Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, a plate of apple pie in his hands. Before he could open his mouth, Mycroft punched him.


End file.
